The Theory of Chaos
by Inkfire
Summary: Where Remus faces himself, in foreign, demanding eyes. Round Eleven of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on HPFC: Remus meets his mother-in-law, Andromeda Tonks.


**First one-shot for the six remaining rounds of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum: Remus meeting his mother-in-law, Andromeda. **

**Dedicated to Mistical Ninja, because I just felt like it. Oh, and yay for 3K ;) **

_"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star." _Nietzsche

* * *

When he was a child, Remus Lupin dreaded family reunions. He dreaded the forced smiles of his relatives, the hushed whispers suddenly interrupted as he walked into a room, the fact that the other children never seemed to come for some reason, or the pats on the head he was given by shaky hands, frantically wishing him not to come closer. Once the whole ordeal was over, his parents would kneel and hug him tight, tight, tight, whispering into his hair that _they_ loved him oh-so-much.

He never quite took it for granted.

Arms, snaking around his waist, hot lips against his neck. The smile that flutters across his mouth is short-lived. His eyes drift closed, as the bold lips slowly travel up to his ear and whisper:

"Ready?"

Her breath is hot, fanning against his cheek, alive. Her arms are gentle yet quite possessive in their own way. She holds her body against his own, warmth and reassurance, like a promise. If he looked down, he could see the ring glistening on that delicate hand that rests upon his stomach. He doesn't. Instead he steps forward, one foot's distance between them before he turns around and gazes into her face. She stares boldly into his eyes, chocolate orbs full of confidence and short blue hair popping in every direction.

(_she reminds him of Sirius, and James. Always arrogantly glaring into the face of prejudice, always recklessly towing him forward to actions and achievements he is too scared to imagine._)

"They won't eat you," she snaps in a fit of temper, shaking her head. "_She_ won't eat you," she amends. The softly stressed word, lucid yet filled with imperious love, sends a shudder running down his spine. Of course Dora knows, he realizes. And of course she'll never allow him to back down.

"Let's go," he says softly.

The setting sun outside touches his skin with a gentle glow that, he supposes, could feel reassuring. Breathing in deeply, he dimly recalls heated debates with Dora, wondering whether his ever so sharp senses, always keenly _in touch_ with the world, are some kind of compensation for that fate of his. He snarled at her that evening, _don't you dare_, he said. He is holding her hand today, the fact, the gesture unfamiliar, very nearly wrong. Today of all days, when fear arouses his most animalistic reflexes – _flee or fight, run or tear _– he passionately wishes he could let go of her. He wishes she would let him go. But still she stubbornly clings on.

Sucked up into nothingness by the unpleasant feeling of Apparition, he clings back to her fingers.

_Don't let me fall into myself. Don't let me waste away. _

_To be another man for you, Dora, if only I could. _

Yet he is but himself in front of this house now, the building small and warm and welcoming, Dora's house, a family's. His heart is hammering in his throat and the likes of something suffocating is tangled up with his lungs as Dora's fingers are tangled up in his, squeezing to support and yet to trap. Eyes wide, thoughts frantic, he walks forward one step at a time, slowly, the pace peaceless and merciless, forbidding him to stop with insistent whispers of love and respect. He could howl at that second, and yet he forces a smile. Dora's pale hand curls into a death grip on the handle, similar to the crushing pressure she exerts upon his own limb. He says quickly, "Go ahead, knock," the words rushing and clashing together on his dry tongue.

She does.

The wait is a two-second beat before this door flies open, and he knows then how anxiously they, _he_ has been expected, how Dora must have thought and thought, talked and talked about this, obsessively worried. All of this restless planning is creeping up on him with the smooth move of the door, and he knows as he meets Ted Tonks' warm gaze that he is staring into the face of Dora's ally, that they plotted together to prepare and to protect, to avoid certain risks. He knows as well that his fears have been so, so justified.

"Ah, the happy couple at last!" Ted cries, "come in!"

And in he walks as though into a trap, Dora's hand slipping from his own as she greets her father, kissing his cheek with fake cheerfulness, laughing and taking off her cloak. He stands in this small hallway as though paralyzed – the saying "thrown to the wolves" crosses his mind at this moment, and he wants to _laugh, laugh, laugh_, because this is so sad it's actually funny. Dora's hand brushes against his rigid back and Ted sweeps past him, chuckling, guiding them forward to one of the doors. And he _is_ trying to calm down, honest, to take deep breaths and think of_ her_ as Dora's beloved mother, as Sirius' favourite cousin, as his mother-in-law – but still. In the end in his whirling, tormented, distorted mind, she stands as some kind of judge, the dark and severe confirmation of what he's been thinking all along (_not good for her, not belonging, a _monster) and he is terrified of her face and voice and words and everything she'll leave hanging unsaid, her, the one and only person who could have Dora genuinely upset and thrown. So for a second his legs refuse to work, and he stands here frozen, his wife-to-be a distressed shadow against his back, the house a cage and his father-in-law the watchful audience. Then Ted raises a hand to clap his shoulder, and the touch of him feels warm and quite accepting, like a support he hadn't yet expected. He takes one step forward, and the man chuckles again.

"This way, son," he speaks, and Remus cannot help a shiver.

He follows. The living room is small and cosy, full of bright light and pictures. The woman who stands at the sight of him knocks the breath from his lungs for a second and makes his fingers itch for his wand, but the shock wears off for she has Dora's eyes, and Dora's hair like he has seen it on very few occasions, when she is sleeping and dreaming some dreams she doesn't tell him about. Instead of an enemy's it is Sirius' features that he desperately looks for on her face now, and as she moves, raises one eyebrow and then, slowly, one hand, her lips curling into something that is probably a smile with a sharp edge to it, there are flickers to be found indeed.

"Mr Lupin," Andromeda Tonks née Black says, "at last we meet you."

She does not shake his hand, and Ted's nervous chuckle, echoing one more time, is not enough against the coldness flooding his lungs.

* * *

She hardly speaks a word.

The room is filled to the brim with Dora's and Ted's chattering, brief fits of laughter breaking out sometimes, a bit too short or too high to be fully genuine, and his fingers feel cold, wrapped tightly around the glass of Firewhiskey Ted shoved into his hands with a small smile earlier. Dora tells them stories of their first meeting, stories of the two of them in the Order. She ducks around Sirius, his refusals, the exact circumstances of their ending up together, and the proposal he didn't make and _she_ brought on. She speaks light-hearted and Andromeda's smile is small, quite tense, unreassured. She does not look into Remus' face. And he does not speak, nor really laugh, either. Opposite him Ted's grin is encouraging and the man nods to him once in a while. At first he didn't get such immediate support, it made him wary and a bit edgy, but now he senses the balance in this small living room. He feels how Ted and Dora's loud, happy banter must loosen Andromeda up oh-so-slightly, and how her delicacy, her reserve and her quiet, reflective mind are probably rest and reassurance for those agitated beings. He measures the strength of the bonds he has been thrown into, and something twists at the very pit of his gut. Of course Ted would accept him without a second glance, and of course Andromeda would be wary. He tries to tell himself that this woman ran from one of the most bigoted families he has ever heard of to marry a muggleborn wizard, that love is bound to win over prejudice for her. Yet everything comes down to that one knowledge: no matter her beliefs or the circumstances, Andromeda Tonks thinks things through, and protects herself and her loved ones. In the end Andromeda's concerns are but the echo of his fears, his long-stifled cries eventually finding voice through the lips of a mother.

_Do you love her enough? _

_Do you deserve her hand? _

_Will you take care of her? _

"Dora," Andromeda cuts in, "you are not telling us about your marriage plans. Surely you must have been thinking about it for a while?"

For a second Dora is silent, and then Remus raises his head, something fierce stirring from the depths of him upon seeing her so white, fragile, hesitant, tormented.

"It is actually quite recent," he says, "we haven't been together for long, but we were... friends, and now we finally found each other. We do not want to wait..."

_For me to change my mind._ Of course it is unsaid, and yet Dora stiffens. He sees pain flickering through her gaze, and a sharp pang tears at his chest. _I don't love you enough – to protect you from myself_ – he should be used to hurting her now, by all means, and yet it still feels eerie, unnatural. He looks away while Andromeda stares on, steadily, at her daughter.

"Why not wait?" she quietly asks.

"We are fighting a war," Dora snaps, and he can feel her nearing her breaking point – nearing tears, something that does not, should not happen to Dora.

(_something he makes happen, all the time now, it seems._)

Andromeda senses it, and her eyes widen slightly.

"I need to speak to my daughter," she announces, "in private."

"Mum, no – "

"Yes, darling. Please."

And because Dora slumps a little, defeated and hopeless, Remus doesn't protest.

He watches them go with a sense of impending doom.

* * *

"You love her, and she loves you."

Remus jumps, violently startled. Because Ted said those words calmly, quietly, almost imperiously, and this man staring intensely into his face seems ever so different from the cheerful guy who welcomed him – and yet it is the same, only gazing at him with heightened feeling. Because he sort of thought his fate was out of his hands as soon as Andromeda left the room with her daughter in tow, and it was painfully easier this way. Because the words are right, yet wrong, unfitting. Dora loves him. He loves her, too... But _she_ loves him. _She _wants him.

(that _is so much easier as well. The sheer strength of Dora, will and feelings unbreakable, ready to take what she wants and face all the consequences, shoulder all the responsibility herself. All by herself._)

"Yes," he croaks however, too tired to explain – too scared to face the truth.

Ted catches his eye and stares deeply there, not letting him look away. He feels cold and tired and wary, perhaps even potentially aggressive towards this man, this ally so far, now starting to question him as well.

"I want you to be sure, Remus," he speaks again.

"You want?" he snaps in a breathless hiss.

"Yes. Don't you?"

Ted is cool, unfazed, respectful in a way, and in a way not. Where Andromeda doubted, Ted trusts, but the weight of this faith is a responsibility and Remus glances away. Where Andromeda's silence was affirming: _You're not worth this_, the edges shaping Ted's words are whispering: _Don't disappoint_. But he feels tired, so tired.

"Why marry?" Ted breathes.

It's like the man is peering into his very soul and Remus wants to say _The war_, or _We are in love_, or _I love her_ or even _Why the hell not?_ But he stares and stares at the alcohol in his hand, glances around the cosy little room, and ever so briefly at himself. And the taste of lies and cowardness is bitter and sour in his mouth, so he drains the glass. _I don't know_.

"Dora wants to."

"You've got to want it."

All of a sudden, Ted sounds frantic.

"Remus, you've got to want it. Or you'll blame it on her. Don't do this, son. You'll ruin one another."

He is leaning forward, whispering heatedly, and Remus cannot look at him. He looks at the window instead, veiled with a thin, delicate lace curtain, and he dreams of tearing it open and forcing his way outside into the night – _alone_ – where he belongs. A warm hand closes upon his knee, anchoring him to the here and now, and he gasps for breath. Ted can be as imperious as Dora, all heat and passion and conviction and a trust waiting to be deserved, something irresistible. Remus wants to moan, or curl up somewhere dark. He doesn't deserve these radiant lights, these deep, honest eyes. Deep down he is a creature of the night. But Ted won't take a flight for an answer.

"Love my daughter," he growls, "but don't love her like a miracle, like something out of your world, don't love her from a _distance_. Love the real her, Remus. Love her laughs and her tears and her ways and her life and her flaws, and be ready to embrace it all as your own. I know you can, I see it in your eyes – you deserve Dora, and your heart, it is deep enough to be filled with hers. But you need to be ready. You need to accept her, and for her, to accept yourself." His voice is raw, hoarse, almost close to tears, it's like a voice from the pit of the universe, speaking truth and Remus sits here frozen.

"Let it be right. When you are ready, you'll feel it. And nothing else will seem even remotely possible, and nothing else will matter."

Ted breathes out in a heavy sigh, and leans back, breaking the spell.

Remus' skull is ringing with his words. He sits here dazed, heart beating madly, shattering his chest a bit more with each passing second, throat tight, fingers numb, eyes almost unseeing. He senses dimly an ever-growing terror at what he is getting himself into, but he cannot quite register it yet. Perhaps he needs time for all those words to sink in. Perhaps. Or perhaps they never will. For now he is _craving_ some fresh air, and some time alone.

"Thank you," he mutters, "thank you." He has to meet Ted's eyes, he doesn't want to, but they reel him in like a magnet, and really, he would love to draw all the love and the warmth from this gaze and give them to Dora – he's just not strong enough. So he just glares desperately into the man's orbs, looking, he knows, like a trapped, caged beast, and then he rises and leaves in a rush.

For a minute, outside in the cool gloom, he stands between two worlds, and he's terrified of the idea of Dora coming for him, fearing he might flee, Dora taking him back inside, or even leaving with him into the night. He wants away from her right now, Dora, the beautiful, unbearable source of love that traps him, wants him, craves him, exhausts him, so miraculous and so, so wrong. She is the sun, and he needs the moon – or perhaps she is the moon, for she is like his fate, and he loathes, loathes, loathes her sometimes, yet he needs her, gravitates around her, and oh, how she fascinates him. He doesn't know anymore, he never did. Dora, his destiny, his doom – sentenced to love in the end, he who always stayed alone – and this love weighs him down, pushes him to the ground, breaks him. Lungs suddenly free, he drinks into the night air, gasping, freedom dazzling him and dizzying him, filling his head with sweet-scented emptiness. He thinks of Dora, her face, her hands, her eyes, her voice. His heart stops for a second, but his lungs keep on breathing greedily.

He stands for a lifetime of pure sensation before the door opens behind him, calling his mind back from its state of blissful oblivion. He turns around, and gasps, surprise briefly stealing his breath, for Dora's eyes are staring thoughtfully at him, but the face, smooth and reflective, is her mother's. Andromeda stands there looking at him, pondering, before she speaks in collected, measured tones, ever the lady:

"Are you going to make a run for it, Remus?"

He blinks, feeling naked under her scrutinizing gaze, and takes a second to regain some composure before he replies simply, without thinking:

"No, I won't."

A slightest frown creases her forehead as she reflects. "Not tonight then. Tell me, when are you planning it?"

His throat feels so tight it's a wonder he's managing to push words out, he thinks dimly at the sound of his own voice: "Never, if I can help it."

"Then by all means help it," she hisses. She takes one step forward, glaring straight into his eyes ardently, her face passionate as was her husband's earlier, and he almost sees Bellatrix again, for she looks nothing short of haunted, burning with a fire too intense not to consume her. "It is easy to run from love, Mr Lupin," she whispers harshly. "One can always find a reason to. Prejudice makes such a convenient one in our world, though, if I may say so, you're using it in a much more twisted way than I ever did to escape facing your feelings and fears." She breathes, deeply, before continuing: "My daughter is taking all the risk, the anguish and delving into the unknown for you, Mr Lupin. She is strong, but not that much. Stand by her side. Make every second worth it, or return to thinking that you are worthless, I shall certainly not object – but far away from my little girl. Don't you dare destroy her."

Remus swallows, feeling light-headed under her furious, demanding stare. In the depths of him he thinks that he never could resist a Black's passion. He thinks that this will be the death of him, too – but it doesn't feel that awful anymore. Maybe it's worth burning alive for love, and never having a choice.

He doesn't really have a choice.

(_it is much easier that way._)

"I love Dora," he croaks. It is the first time he's ever said it. Not "yes", not "of course" and no "too" tagging along to ease the responsibility of those three smooth, quick, piercing words. One breath, one truth, one surge of responsibility. Andromeda nods, solemn.

"She wants to go, now," she says. "I think that's best, as well."

Remus nods, and Andromeda half-turns. "Don't you forget, Mr Lupin," she says from the doorframe. "Don't you ever forget."

And then she's gone, silhouetted by warm light, and he stands there, watching Dora's shadow appear.

Her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks pale, thin, and very young, staring steadily into his eyes. Her hair has turned a dark purple. Her lips are a tight line. He reaches out a hand.

She seizes it.

"You were right, I suppose," she murmurs, and his heart leaps in his throat. "It was hard," she finishes under her breath.

Slowly, he brings her hand to his lips. "Are we going?" he whispers.

"Yes."

Taking a step forward, she searches his gaze for something even she doesn't seem able to define. He stares back, silent. Their hearts are beating painfully, at the very same unsteady pace. He knows it. He knows this face, and this voice, and this rock-hard vulnerable little woman everything else seems to fall and shatter around.

When they kiss, every rational thought goes under.

* * *

_"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves?" _Nietzsche.


End file.
